Heedless Hetty

One evening Mr. Eyre came home rather early, saying that he had a headache, and felt very tired.

"Mr. Cartwright asked me to post this letter, Celia, but I felt so done up that I took the tram the whole way. Could Hetty run to the post office in Little Hayes for me?"

"Certainly she can."

"Here then, Hetty. It is of consequence, and you have only just time to get it posted; so make no delay anywhere."

"But you may pay your mother a visit on your way back," added Mrs. Eyre; "for you pass the door, you know."

Hetty took the letter and set off. She was quite close to the post office, when unfortunately she espied a Punch and Judy show a little way off, and it at once struck her that with two of Flo's dolls and that squeaky voice she could amuse the child wonderfully. To acquire the squeak, she stopped to listen, and thought no more of letter or post till the show was over. Then she went on to the office—to find the post box shut.

"Oh dear, dear what am I to do? and I'm sure I didn't stay five minutes!"

"Five minutes!" echoed a woman who knew her. "Say twenty, Heedless Hetty. Knock at the shutter there; maybe they'll take it."

Hetty groaned and timidly knocked at the cruel little green shutter which covered the box, as well as a tiny window above it. After two or three knocks it flew open, and a boy looked out—Fred Smith, a great friend of Dan Hardy.

"Oh, Fred! do take in this letter! My master said it was of consequence, and must go to-night, and I stopped to look at a Punch and Judy—do take it."

"But the bag's gone!" cried Fred. "It's too late from this office to-night. Never mind, Hetty, give it here, and I'll slip it into the bag to-morrow morning, and then no one need know about Punch."

"But it would be deceit," said Hetty, drawing back, "and master might get blamed. I must tell him. Good-bye, Fred; you mean it kindly, but I couldn't do it—nor you wouldn't do it yourself; either."

"I'm afraid I would," Fred answered, with a half laugh.

"Oh, no! Sure it is just the same thing as a lie."

With these words Hetty turned and ran off. She passed her mother's door without slackening her pace, and was soon at Adelaide Terrace. She would have been a good deal surprised had she heard what Fred Smith said as he watched her flying round the corner,—

"Well, that's a good girl, even if she is heedless. Dan's always laughing at her, but I shall tell him on Sunday that she's a deal better than either of us, and I'll do the like of that no more, for she is right."

Mrs. Eyre opened the door for Hetty. "Come in quietly. I'm afraid your master is not well. I never saw him so tired. He is half asleep."

"Oh, ma'am, what will you say to me? I was late with the letter!—too late for the post!"

"Oh, Hetty, Hetty!"

"What is that?" cried Mr. Eyre from the parlour. "Do I hear you saying that the letter was too late?"

"Yes, sir," said Hetty, in a trembling voice, but going forward to meet him with the letter in her hand; "the bag was gone."

"You had plenty of time. What made you late?"

"It was a Punch and Judy, sir. I wanted to be able to do it for Miss Flo, and so—"

"Very careless. I have not time to speak to you now, for that letter must go, or Mr. Cartwright will be very angry. Where are my boots? Celia, I must go into town with it."

"Oh, John! and you so tired!"

"Let me go, sir. I'll run every step of the way and I won't look at a single thing. I know where to go. Sir, if you'll only trust me just this once, I'll be very careful."

"No, no. You're really too scatterbrained," he said. He began pulling on his boots, but stopped with a sigh.

"I can't," he said; "I have such a headache. Hetty, I must trust to you after all. Here is money; take the tram if you can, but they only run every quarter at this hour."

"I'll do my very best," cried Hetty. And she was out of the house before any one could speak again.

A tram-car would start in ten minutes, the men told her, when she reached the place where the line stopped. Hetty would not wait, but ran on, going at such a pace that the car never overtook her. But she had the satisfaction of being in time: Much consoled, she hurried home, to find that her master had gone to bed, and that Mrs. Eyre was seriously frightened about him.

CHAPTER V.

UPS AND DOWNS.

"THAT'S well! Now I shall be all right after a good night's sleep," Mr. Eyre said, when assured that the unlucky letter was safely posted.

But unfortunately he did not get a good night's sleep—or any sleep at all—for he began to shiver and shake so much that Mrs. Eyre called Hetty, and sent her for Dr. Haddon. And so far from being "all right" in the morning, he was so ill that Hetty was sent with a note to Miller & Cartwright, to say that he could by no means go to his business that day.

Mr. Eyre was ill for three weeks, and it was a sharp attack. He was never in actual danger, but his wife thought he was, and her misery was great. It was now that she found the comfort of having a tender-hearted, sympathizing girl like Hetty to help her, instead of being dependent on old Mrs. Goodenough, who, though an honest, hardworking woman, was so far from feeling for others, that she never once offered to stay five minutes beyond her usual time, or to do anything but her usual work, during the whole three weeks of anxiety.

But Hetty was very helpful, never once relapsing into carelessness. She kept the children quiet, made beef-tea and cooling drinks, took Lina to school, carried Flo up and down the terrace, nursed the baby, and constantly assured her mistress that "Master wasn't nearly as bad as Mrs. Clarke's Ben, so that he would certainly get well. Ben got well, though he was prayed for in church," she added triumphantly.

Flora, too, behaved very well. She lay there uncomplainingly, neither asking to be amused, nor making a fuss about anything. She and Zelica kept each other company. Zelica was "a real comfort," the old-fashioned little body informed the doctor.

And baby was excellent. But I am sorry to say that Lina and Edgar were exceedingly troublesome until Mrs. Eyre gave them both a good whipping, after which they began to consider their ways.

At last—it was not really so very long, but it seemed long to all concerned—at last came the happy day when papa could come down into the parlour—very weak and pale, and very glad to sink into his arm-chair, after the great exertion of coming downstairs, supported by his wife on one side and the banisters on the other.

"There, Hetty!" cried the little woman joyfully. "You see, you were right, and he is going to get well, after all."

"And I don't know what we should have done without you, Hetty," added Mr. Eyre. "You have been such a comfort to your mistress in every way."

Of course Hetty began to cry. Whether praised or blamed, Hetty generally cried. "Oh, sir," she said, "I do wish mother could hear that."

"So she shall," said Mrs. Eyre. "I shall certainly tell her. You have been the greatest comfort and help to me."

"And so has Zelica been to me," remarked Flo, which made them all laugh; and Hetty ran off to the kitchen to get tea ready, so uplifted in heart that she had to sing the whole of "God save the Queen" to relieve herself.

Mrs. Hardy herself brought home the clothes on Saturday, and Mrs. Eyre called her into the parlour, and there, with Hetty standing by as red as a peony, she told her how well the girl had behaved.

Mrs. Hardy was pleased, though it was against her principles to show it. She laughed, and said, "Oh, Hetty was always good at a pinch. I wonder now what outrageous thing she'll do to make up for lost time."

"Come, now, you are too hard upon her," said Mr. Eyre.

"I don't mean to be, sir. I warned the mistress here not to be praising her. Her head don't stand it, ma'am, and so you'll find. But I'm very glad she was serviceable to you, though it's no more than her duty, and so we'll say no more about it."

But she told Matty that she really believed that Hetty was going to behave like other people, she was so improved.

Yet I must confess that I do not think that Hetty was really improved. She was a good girl, very truthful and honest, very kind-hearted and affectionate, anxious to do right when she gave herself the trouble to think about it. The misfortune was, that she often did not think, nor had she yet learned that it was wrong to be so heedless. It gave her no trouble, but came quite natural to her, to be very sorry for others when in sorrow or anxiety, and to help them with all her heart. She was not heedless then, because her feelings were touched, and her mind was full of plans to be of use. When she had done a careless thing she was very sorry, quite ready to own to it, and to cry over it; but all this, only if her heedlessness had caused mischief and annoyance. She did twenty careless things for which she never was sorry, because no great harm came of them. In fact, she acted on impulse, not on principle; and being fortunately a good girl, her impulses were mostly good; but she had yet to learn self-control.

She had yet to learn that a Christian must bring conscience to bear upon every action of life, small as well as great. And as to seriously repenting of her fault, and praying to be cured of it, she was so far from this, that she hardly knew it for a fault at all, but called it a misfortune, and had quite forgotten Matty's little sermon to her on the day she left home.

She loved her mistress and Miss Flora very sincerely, and was capable of doing much to please either them or her master; but though it is well to love our fellow creatures, and all love is the gift of God, yet only the love of God, filling our hearts with an ardent desire to please Him, can so fill these hearts of ours as to drive out carelessness, thoughtlessness, or any other sin. Still, Hetty was one of God's dear children, thoughtless as she still was; and if she would not learn the mild lessons He was giving her now, we may be sure that some lesson of a more severe nature would be sent to her. For He loves His children, and will have them learn to think more of pleasing Him than of anything else.

Mrs. Eyre, however, thought, naturally enough, that Hetty had left off her heedless ways, and was therefore a little disappointed when, on coming home from an expedition to Messrs. Miller & Cartwright's, whither her husband had sent her, she perceived a very unpleasant smell in the hall.

"Oh, Hetty, what a horrid smell! What is it?"

"Indeed, ma'am, it is the small tin kettle. Mrs. Goodenough had not filled it, and I thought she had, and put it on, wanting some hot water. But it was empty, and it got all red, and there is a great hole in it. I am very sorry, ma'am."

"But do you mean the tea-kettle? Mrs. Goodenough never fills that. I like to fill it with fresh water when I am going to make the tea."

"Yes, ma'am. But I never thought of that."

"And I have told you not to use that kettle, you know, except for making tea."

"Yes, ma'am. But I forgot. I'm very sorry."

Mrs. Eyre's interview with her husband's employers had been a trying one, and she was feeling low and tired. It is not easy to be quite patient when one is feeling thus, so it was with less than her usual gentleness that she said,—

"If you minded what I say to you, you would not have spoiled my nice little kettle. I hope you have water boiling to make tea, for I am very tired and thirsty."

"Yes, ma'am—at least, it will boil soon. I did not think of it at first."

"Well, I'll come down as soon as I have given your master a message I have for him."

She went into the parlour, where Mr. Eyre, Flo and Zelica, were keeping each other company.

It was half an hour or so before Mrs. Eyre came down to the kitchen. Hetty had the tea-tray ready and the kettle boiling; but, alas! when Mrs. Eyre glanced at the said kettle, she perceived that it was her pretty little bronze one, which certainly never was meant to be put on the fire; and the round cover of the stove was off, the poor little kettle being well thrust down among the coals.

"Oh, Hetty, you really are too provoking!" she cried. "To use the bronze kettle! It never was meant to go on the fire! It was one of my wedding presents, and I would not have had it spoiled for anything! Surely there are plenty of common kettles."

"I'm very sorry, ma'am," began Hetty; but poor, tired, worried Mrs. Eyre replied sharply,—

"Where is the use of being sorry, if you go from one careless thing to another? There, I've made the tea. I shall come down for the tray in five minutes. Pour the water out of that kettle. Hetty, do use your eyes; don't you see that this one is full? Pour it away down the sink. Now clean the kettle thoroughly; don't leave off until you have it perfectly clean."

She walked to the door, but paused there to say, "You have seen Mrs. Goodenough cleaning it; are you sure you know what to use?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Hetty tearfully.

When Mrs. Eyre came for the tea-tray, she saw Hetty rubbing away with great vigour, crying all the time. Being really provoked, she did not speak, but took up her tray and walked off. Tea over, she told Lina to call Hetty to come for the tray, for she was really very tired. Hetty came, bringing with her the unfortunate kettle, bronze no longer. For "Heedless Hetty" had used Bath brick, instead of the proper powder, and her strong young arms enabling her to rub powerfully, she had rubbed off every morsel of bronze, and the kettle was now bright brass.

"There, ma'am, see how bright I have made it!" Hetty said.

Mr. Eyre looked up from his book, saw the kettle, saw, too, his wife's face of horror. He burst out laughing, and, after a moment, Mrs. Eyre laughed too.

"Bright, certainly, Hetty; but I'm afraid it won't match its stand any more. What have you done to it?"

"Oh dear!" cried Hetty. "If I haven't Bath-bricked it! Oh, ma'am, I am—"

"Very sorry," put in Mr. Eyre. "Ah, Hetty, I wish you'd use your brains—you have brains, you know. Never mind, Celia, I will get the kettle bronzed again—when I can."

And he sighed; whereon Flo called out,—

"Papa, come here, please. Give me a kiss. Dear papa," with her little arms round his neck, "do not be sorry; I don't like to see you so."

Hetty, much subdued, went away with the tray and the luckless kettle. The foolish girl thought that her master's sigh was caused by the kettle's change of complexion, but poor Mr. Eyre had more serious cause for sighing than that.

He had been ill for three weeks, and it would be some time before he was fit to go to his work again. The doctor's bill was a large one, for some of the medicines had been expensive, and he had now to take beef-tea, nourishing food, and a little wine; and all this costs money. He had sent his wife to Mr. Cartwright, the managing partner, to find out if he would advance him a portion of his salary; but Mr. Cartwright refused, on the ground that it was not the rule of the house, and would be a bad precedent.

"I had some difficulty," he said, "in getting any one to fill Eyre's place, and of course the salary goes to the man who is doing the work. The sooner Eyre gets back to his desk the better for all parties," remarked fat, prosperous Mr. Cartwright, playing with his watch-chain, and smiling in a superior manner at the poor, anxious little woman.

"But, sir, we are—"

"Short of money, eh? Ah, yes; I told Eyre how it would be when he married—absurd, you know, to marry so young. If he don't like our rules, I daresay the gentleman who fills his place would be very glad to remain permanently."

"My husband will return to his work as soon as he possibly can," said Mrs. Eyre. "Good-evening, sir."

It was plain that to urge her request might prove worse than useless. She softened the story as much as possible when telling her husband; but it was not a cheering story at the best.

The Eyres certainly had married young, and Flo's ill health had been an expense to them. Still, Mrs. Eyre was a good manager, and they had kept out of debt, and had even saved a very few pounds. The little hoard paid the doctor, and this left a very tiny sum to carry them on until Mr. Eyre could claim a month's salary.

No wonder he sighed and she looked grave; her head was full of plans for lessening her expenditure; and poor Hetty, polishing the cups and saucers until they shone again, and shedding plenteous tears over the sorely changed kettle, little thought what far greater cause for weeping she was about to have.

CHAPTER VI.

MRS. GOODENOUGH'S ADVICE.

MRS. EYRE, thinking and thinking how to lessen her already moderate outlay, made up her mind, with much regret, that she must part with Hetty. Without Mrs. Goodenough she felt she could not manage, but although Flo would miss her sadly, Hetty must go; for truly there was so little spent, save on necessaries, that to part with Hetty, keep Lina at home from school, and do without a new bonnet, was all the poor little woman could think of.

So when the morning walk and the early dinner were over, Lina and Edgar out at play, and Flo dozing on the sofa, Mrs. Eyre said,—

"You cannot think, Hetty, how sorry I am. But Mr. Eyre's illness, and his absence from the shop, makes such a difference to us that I find I must do without you, for the present; and of course I could not ask you to stay at home waiting until I could have you again."

"Oh, ma'am! Me to go home? Oh, I thought you'd forgiven me, ma'am, and—"

"It is not that at all. I do not expect a girl of your age to be a first-rate servant all at once, and you have been very useful and a great help to me. It is just what I say: I must lessen my weekly expenses, and this is one of the very few ways in which I can do so. And I am very sorry to lose you, Hetty."

Hetty got up and crept away to cry in secret, for she did not want to awake Flo. But, unfortunately, Flo had not been quite asleep, and had understood what was said only too well. She was in a sad way; in fact, I do not know which wept most, Flo or Hetty. But I do know that the saddest person there, on whose shoulders all the trouble would fall, was Mrs. Eyre, who did not cry at all, but said to her husband,—

"Never mind, John. It is only for a time."

Mrs. Goodenough, arriving next morning, found Hetty washing up the breakfast things, while her tears dropped into the water, patter patter, as if she was trying whether salt water would impart an added polish to china.

"In mischief again, Hetty?" said the old woman, laughing. "Such a girl to cry I never did see."

"Mrs. Goodenough, you'd cry if you were me. I'm—go-o-o-o-ing away."

"Well, and what of that? There's plenty of places where an active girl will get as good, ay! and better, wages than you get here, for less work. My Lady Drysdale, where your sister is, wants a kitchen maid. You'd easy get the place. Eight pounds a year, I believe. Me cry if I was the one to go-o-o-o!" and she mimicked poor Hetty in a very heartless way; "not me, indeed. I guessed that they'd be for saving and scraping; for everyone says Cartwrights are very hard—not a penny given if their folks are ill, and no advances, not if they was starving. Every one for himself in this world. You ask Mrs. Eyre for a bit of a character, and go and get this good place, where you'll learn to be a first-rate cook, and be getting your thirty or forty pounds a year by-and-by."

"But Miss Flo. I do love Miss Flo."

"Oh, get out o' that with your love! It's yourself you have to think of. Five pounds a year, and killing yourself carrying that poor child—and eight for half the work. And now 'twill be, 'Mrs. Goodenough, will you help me to move the sofa?' or, 'Will you take baby for half an hour?' as it used to be. I was thinking of leaving before they got you in, and 'twouldn't take much to make me leave now."

"Mrs. Goodenough, is it now, when they are in trouble? Do you mean to say you've been coming here all these years, and haven't got to love Mrs. Eyre and the children?"

"What call have I to love them? I never was one for going about loving folk. And do you think they spend much time in loving me? Don't you be a fool, Hetty. Servants has no business with such feelings; you've your work to do, and you must do it well, because it ain't respectable to do otherways, and they pays you, and there's an end. What's the love wanted for?"

Hetty stared—this line of reasoning was new to her.

"Christians ought to love one another," said she, presently.

"Bother!" was the reply. "You can't love every one, and you know you can't. It's just humbug!"

"Miss Flo loves me. And the mistress said she was sorry to lose me."

"So she well may. You've slaved for her and that child, and now you see what you get by it. Out you go the moment it's convenient. Why, by that counting, I love you; for I'm sorry you're to go—you've saved me a lot of trouble, and I will say you're an obliging girl. Well, the mistress must manage somehow, for I declare I'm too old to be put upon, and the children are no business of mine. I must get to work now; I'm sure I don't know why I am wasting my time trying to put sense into you, Hetty."

Mrs. Goodenough was not generally inclined to talk much to Hetty, whose willingness to oblige often annoyed her, by making her unwillingness more remarkable. And it was quite true that she did not know what made her preach this nice little sermon on self-love; but I think I can guess. If we deliberately harbour selfish feelings, and pride ourselves on them, he who inspires them will use us as his mouthpiece occasionally—which is not a comfortable thought.

For awhile these remarks made Hetty very unhappy. Was it true that everybody cared only for number one, and that to love those about you was folly? But reflection brought happier feelings.

"The Bible," said Hetty to herself; "tells us to love one another, and it can't mean only one's own folk, because that comes by nature. And it says to serve faithfully, not for wages only; at least, I think it does. Matty could tell me—she knows where all the nice verses are; and she tries to love every one, I know. I think Mrs. Goodenough has no feelings."

She took up her Bible—a Sunday-school prize, gained long ago, and in which she read a chapter every day. But now she turned over the leaves in search of advice, for she had a plan in her head, and did not see how to carry it out. Of course she did not find any direct advice in the Bible, but she found many things that washed away the worldly, selfish notions with which Mrs. Goodenough had tried to fill her mind.

She found a great deal about love, and very little about taking care of oneself. She found one verse which said that "even Christ came not to be ministered unto, but to minister"; and another, which seemed to mean that if we do good only to those who do good to us, it is not worth much. "So," thought she, "even if Mrs. Goodenough was right, and my mistress does not care for me, it makes no difference in what I ought to do. But she is kind, and she does feel kind towards me; of course she won't love me as I might come to love her, for what am I compared to her? Well, one thing is clear; if no one ever loves me, it's my duty to love people. And I must see mother, for she has a right to settle it."

She put on her hat and ran down to the parlour. "Can you spare me for an hour, ma'am? I want to speak to mother."

"Yes, of course you do. I can spare you, Hetty. Indeed, we must learn to do without you—poor Flo and I."

On this Flo began to cry again, and so, be sure, would Hetty—when a cry was heard outside, "Cherries! ripe cherries! cherry-ripe! cherry-ripe! Penny a bunch! penny a bunch!"

"Mamma," cried Flora, "do you hear? Ripe cherries, only one penny a bunch. Oh, do get me some—they are so cool and nice."

It was very seldom that Flo asked for anything eatable, for she was not a greedy child, and if she had a cake or other little dainty given her, she always insisted on sharing it with the whole family. But for fruit the poor child had a perfect craving, and the misfortune was that all fruit, except strawberries and grapes, disagreed with her dreadfully.

Hetty ran off to stop the woman with the cherries, but Mrs. Eyre called to her.

"No, Hetty—thank you. I cannot give Flo any cherries. Don't stay out very long, please, for I have to take the other children into town to get new boots; they must have them, I find."

Hetty heard poor little Flo giving way to a most unusual fit of whining.

"Why can you not give me cherries, mamma? Only one pennyworth!"

And Hetty heard no more, for she closed the hall door and ran on down the terrace.

"Poor Mrs. Eyre!" thought she, "not to be able to spare one penny, when the dear little soul wants them so badly. Oh I declare I might get some for her myself; that sixpence of Ned's is in my pocket."

She ran after the woman and bought two bunches, each containing six or seven cherries. These she popped into her pocket, as she had not time to run back with them. Then she was soon at her mother's door.

The lines in the garden were full of fluttering, dangling linen, and Mrs. Hardy and Matty were refreshing themselves with a well-earned cup of tea.

"Why, here's Hetty; and as solemn as you please," cried Mrs. Hardy.

"Oh, mother, I'm so glad to find you resting, for I want a talk with you very much. I've been thinking, and thinking, and I know what I'd like to do, but you'll know whether I ought, and besides, you may not like me to do it."

"Sit down, child. Matty, give her a cup of tea to help her to speak plain. You're not in any scrape, Hetty? That's well; and as for what you've said so far, I don't know what you're at."

Hetty drank her tea, and then proceeded to tell her story, dwelling at some length on Mrs. Goodenough's remarks.

"And now, mother, if you wish it, I can try for that place at Lady Drysdale's, but I would much rather be with my mistress. And there she'll be, with Miss Flo fretting, and the baby teething, and Miss Lina at home all day and very troublesome, just like our Jane, and no help from Mrs. Goodenough, who has made up her mind to leave if she is asked for any. Now, if the mistress would keep me, and not Mrs. Goodenough, I would be of a deal more use to her. The mistress can't carry Miss Flo a bit."

"Ay, child—but the cooking?"

"I could do all that Mrs. Goodenough does. The mistress does it herself. Mrs. Goodenough cleans up, and if there's anything to be put in the oven for dinner, she does that."

"And doesn't forget it, eh, Hetty?"

Hetty looked rather foolish for a moment. Then she said: "Mother, do you know, I really think that the more I have to do, the less I forget. It is not while I am busy that I forget, but when I sit thinking."

"Sit idle, you mean. But I daresay you are right; it's what Matty has always said. All the same, Mrs. Goodenough's work, with carrying Miss Flo added to it, is a good deal, Hetty, for a girl of your age to undertake."

"Well, I'd like it. I like work, and I'm as strong as a pony. And—I just thought, mother, that it might be right. I do love my mistress and Miss Flo. But of course it's for you to choose."

"As to going as kitchen maid at Lady Drysdale's, I wouldn't have it at all, Hetty. It's very different from being in the nursery, like Annie. There's a swarm of men-servants, and you're young and giddy. And I don't deny that I'm glad and pleased to hear you say you love your mistress and the child you've had charge of, and that you're willing to work hard for them. As far as my leave goes, you may see what Mrs. Eyre thinks of it, just for a time. But the thing is, what will Mrs. Goodenough say?"

"She told me herself that if she was asked to move the sofa or hold the baby, she'd leave."

"For all that, she'd be very angry if you put her out. Nor you wouldn't like it done to yourself, Hetty."

"No, that's very true. What can I do? I think I might tell Mrs. Eyre something of what Mrs. Goodenough said to me, and get her to ask Mrs. Goodenough now if she will be willing to give a little help—for you know, mother, she really must, if she's to stay. The mistress is real clever, but she's not very strong."

"You might do that. But you must not be disappointed if she says she will stay. For it's one thing to talk big to you, and quite another to throw away a place where she's very comfortable. If she promises, mind now, you mustn't say another word."

"I will not indeed, mother."

"Do you know what I think?" said Matty, looking up from her knitting. "I think, if mother went up herself and said that about asking Mrs. Goodenough, it would come better from her than from Hetty."

"That's true," said Mrs. Hardy; "and I'll step up to-morrow about ten. I'm very tired now, and a few hours won't make any difference."

"Thank you, mother. I must run home now, for Mrs. Eyre wants to go out. I shall be on the watch for you to-morrow."

Hetty was soon at home again. She found her mistress and the children ready to set out, and Mrs. Eyre only lingered to beg Hetty not to forget to put the mutton into the oven at the right time.

CHAPTER VII.

CHERRIES.

HETTY found Flo crying. Poor little thing, she had been the most sunny-tempered creature before her accident, and even since then her good temper and patience were wonderful. But she suffered a good deal of pain, and there was often a little feverishness about her; and hers was a trial which would have been felt by much older people—to lie on the sofa all day long, unable to take any part in all the fun and frolic of the others. And now the added grief of losing Hetty had made the child a little cross.

"Oh, Miss Flo, what's the matter with you? I can stay with you all the time; I need only run down to the kitchen once or twice."

"Oh, Hetty, Hetty! I'm very low to-day. I cannot help it, though I do try sometimes. Now they're all gone to get new boots, and I can't help wondering, shall I ever want new boots again any more?"

"Indeed you will, miss! If you're only careful to do just what the doctor said, and never hurt yourself, I'm very sure you'll be quite well some day. Have patience, my dearie, and don't make poor mamma fret. Nothing frets her like seeing you like this. You were crying when I went out, and you were crying when I came back, and it's bad for you, dear, and not right, too. Come now; shall I read you a bit of some nice story?"

"Presently. I'd rather talk a little first. When I've grumbled a bit, I feel better; and you won't mind, will you, Hetty? Yes; I was crying when you went out because mamma would not give me any cherries."

"And see now what I have in my pocket!" exclaimed Hetty; "and if I had not forgotten all about them. I ran after the woman and got two lovely bunches for you. Look, Miss Flo."

She produced the cherries, not very much improved by their sojourn in her pocket; in fact, they were quite warm and a good deal crushed. But Flo was not inclined to be critical.

"Oh, how kind! But mamma said—I do not think I ought to eat them, Hetty. But it was very kind of you."

Now Hetty, you must remember, was under the impression that it was only the expense that had prevented Mrs. Eyre from buying the cherries. She had not heard her tell the child that she could not have them because they always made her ill. And as to the idea that cherries, no matter how unripe, or how knocked about in a warm pocket, could disagree with any one, it was far indeed from Hetty's mind. She had been one of those lucky children who can eat anything, green apples, sloes, bilberries, or even bad cherries, and never feel a bit the worse.

"I don't think your mamma would mind," said she; "but I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll just put them into Miss Lina's little basket, and lay it here on the table till the mistress comes home."

"Take me in your arms, Hetty, and carry me up and down, just for a minute."

Hetty did so, and then the child consented to be read to. Generally, she was very particular about Hetty's pronunciation, and corrected her frequently, like the old-fashioned scrap she was. This evening, however, she listened in silence; she was looking hard at the cherries.

"There's the clock, Miss Flo. I must run and see after the cooking; but I shall not be long."

She ran downstairs, and made what haste she could to return. But while she was absent poor little Flo had contrived to reach the little basket, and had eaten up every one of the cherries. She had been gazing at them, and longing for them, and telling herself that mamma would not let her have them, and that Hetty would give them to Edgar and Lina; and I think it was the vision of the delicious cherries disappearing down their throats, that finally conquered the poor child. She meant to tell Hetty, but when she heard her coming, she was ashamed; and putting the stalks and stones into the basket, she dropped it between the back of her sofa and the wall. And poor "Heedless Hetty," coming in just then, never missed the basket, nor thought about the cherries again, until, when going to bed that night, she took from her pocket four big brown pennies, and remembered why she had "broken into her sixpence," as she said to herself.

But if Flo had been fretful before, it was nothing to her crossness now. Nothing pleased her; the book was stupid, the room was too hot, Hetty was unkind; she cried every minute, and finally burst into a howl, declaring that "she was too miserable to be good." Her cries awoke the baby, who promptly added his voice to the uproar, and Hetty was fairly at her wits' end, when a knock at the door announced the return of the expedition to B— and silenced Flo.

"Oh, ma'am, I am glad you are come, for I'm half afraid that Miss Flo is ill. I never saw her like this before."

"Does she complain of any pain?"

"No, ma'am; but she's very restless. She was crying out loud just now, but when you knocked she stopped."

"I heard crying, but I thought it was the baby."

"'Twas both, ma'am; but when she left off, so did he."

"I'm afraid you've been frightened, Hetty. I hope there's nothing much the matter. Flo has been rather cross all day. Run up, children, and Hetty will take your things off."

She herself walked into the parlour, to see after Flo. The child was very white, wearied out with crying. As soon as she saw her mother, she said, "Don't kiss me, mamma, I've been bad."

"But, my wee woman, I kiss you because I love you."

"You would not kiss me if you knew how bad I've been."

"We will not talk of that yet. See, I have brought you something that you like;" and she opened a paper bag and displayed half a dozen Naples biscuits.

Flo turned her face to the wall and wept.

Mrs. Eyre was puzzled, but the child seemed so ill and feverish that she judged it better to ask no questions. She began getting the room ready for tea, and then took baby out of his cradle, wide awake now, and as jolly as usual. Mr. Eyre came home, the other children came downstairs, and they all sat down to tea. Hetty had set the tray on the table, and was leaving the room, when Flo called to her.

"Hetty! Take me to bed. I want nothing to eat. I'm tired; please, may I go to bed?"

"Oh, my child, just eat a little bit. Hetty, has she eaten anything since we went out?"

"No, ma'am."

"Take me to bed!" cried Flo desperately. "I will go to bed. Mamma, give Lina and Edgar the biscuits; do, mamma, please."

Hetty put her to bed; she was very silent, until she was tucked snugly into her little white nest, when she said, "Good-night, Hetty. I am a very unhappy person. After what has happened, no one will love me."

Hetty laughed, and kissed her. "That's a funny notion, Miss Flo. Why, here's Zelica. After being asleep the whole evening, she is wide awake now; I had better take her back to the parlour."

"No, no; give her to me. Oh, Zelica, I'm so glad that you won't understand. Go away, now, Hetty, I want to think, and see if I can do it."

"Do what, dear?—go to sleep, I hope. I will run up presently and see how you get on."

Lina and little Edgar slept in the nursery, Flo in her mother's room. When the children were in bed, Hetty stole in softly to look at Flo. The child had fallen asleep, with tears on her cheeks and her pretty eyelashes all wet. She moved restlessly, and made a little moan occasionally. Hetty ran down to tell her mistress.

"Miss Flo is not sleeping easily at all, ma'am."

"I'll go up to her. Oh, John, what am I to do if Flo is ill, and Mrs. Goodenough will not do a thing for me?"

"Did she tell you she would not, ma'am?" said Hetty quickly.

"I told her to-day that we could not manage to keep you, and that we must manage as we did before you came; and she said it was only fair to tell me that she could not help about the children; that she would do her own work, and no more."

"I declare," said Mr. Eyre indignantly, "I should have given her warning on the spot."

"She said much the same to me this morning, ma'am. And then I thought—maybe if you let her go, and kept me. I went and asked mother, and she's coming to-morrow to find out if Mrs. Goodenough is in earnest. I know I'm not as good a servant, but I would do my best—I would do anything, ma'am, to be with you and Miss Flo. I know what has to be done, too—a stranger would give you more trouble, and I should be here to carry Miss Flo, and all. Mother was quite satisfied. Oh, do let me stay, ma'am!"

"It would be too much work for you, Hetty."

"Not it, ma'am. Not half as tiring as a day over mother's tubs! I'm very strong—if you can overlook my heedless ways; and, oh! but I would do my best."

"But, Mrs. Goodenough," began Mrs. Eyre, "she is old, and would not easily get a place to suit her, and she has been with me a long time, and—"

"Look here, Celia. I'll settle this in two sentences. Whether Goodenough meant what she said or not, it is all the same. She has never been an obliging servant; and it is for you, and not for her, that I am going to care. Would you not rather have Hetty?"

"Oh, dear, yes, I should. I think Hetty and I could get on very well, just for a time. It is only that Hetty will easily get a place, and—"

"Well, that's her own look-out. I'll see Mrs. Goodenough to-morrow morning and tell her that she may go. In my opinion you'll be twice as well off with Hetty. And I trust that this pinch is only for a time; we'll get another Goodenough by-and-by."

"Well, Hetty, your master, you see, has made up his mind; and if I find that your mother is content, you do not know how glad I shall be. I really think it was making my poor little Flo ill, she was so sorry."

Hetty coloured and smiled, and looked so happy that one might have thought she had just got great promotion.

Mr. Eyre said when she was gone, "That's a good girl, Celia. I never liked Goodenough, selfish old cat! I hope she may end in the poorhouse!"

"Now you don't, John. Poor old woman!"

Down came Hetty again, full speed. "Oh, ma'am, Miss Flo does look so bad!"

They all ran upstairs. Flo was twisting and moaning as if in pain, her cheeks flushed and her lips white. She woke up in a moment and looked frightened.

"Flo, dear, are you feeling ill? You were crying out in your sleep."

Flo turned her face away. "I don't want anything," she said.

They thought she was asleep again; and as it was now late, Mrs. Eyre sent Hetty to bed, and said that she would sit up for a little while, just to see how the child slept.

Hetty went to the nursery and began to undress. Then came the discovery about the sixpence—a sixpence no longer.

"The cherries!" said she to herself, "what has become of them? Sure, they couldn't make the child ill, even if she ate them—and we put them in the basket. But I'll just run down and look. I never thought a few cherries could make a child ill; but if they have, the mistress ought to know."

She went down to the parlour. But she could not find the basket—that she did not find the cherries need scarcely be said.

While she was searching about, Mrs. Eyre came down. "I thought I heard you moving about—what made you come down again?"

"Well, ma'am, I'm looking for some cherries that I bought for Miss Flo, and she would not eat them until you were here to give her leave. I put them into Miss Lina's basket, but I can't find them."

"Cherries! why, Hetty, you know I refused to get any for her, just as you were going out! They always make her ill, and those the woman had were neither ripe nor freshly gathered."

"I did not know they made her ill, ma'am."

"I think you were in the room when I said so."

"Oh no, ma'am. You only said you could not give her any. I meant no harm, but she told me she did not think she ought to eat them, so we put them in the basket, but I do wonder where they are."

As she spoke, she stooped to look on the floor for the missing treasure, and at once cried out, "There they are!" Pushing the sofa out from the wall, she seized the basket. Alas! it was empty. Hetty grew quite red.

"They may have fallen out," said Mrs. Eyre. "Look on the carpet."

Hetty went down on her knees, and searched about; but she was so long, that at last Mrs. Eyre said, "What are you about, Hetty? Are the cherries there, or not?"

Hetty got up. She held out on the palm of her hand thirteen cherry stones and a little heap of stalks.

"Hetty, oh, Hetty, perhaps you ate them! When she would not, you know. You do forget things, you see."

"What is keeping you, Celia?" said Mr. Eyre, walking in.

"Did you, Hetty?" repeated Mrs. Eyre.

"No, ma'am."

"Oh, John, that is what ails poor little Flo. Hetty went and gave her a lot of cherries, though she heard me refuse to buy them for her. And now she tells me she put them in this basket, because Flo refused to eat them—but the cherries are gone."

"Ma'am, it was wrong of me to buy them for her, I suppose; but indeed I did not hear you say that they'd make her ill, nor did I ever think it possible. I did not know she took them, but now I'm sure it was while I was in the kitchen, for the poor little dear, she wasn't like herself all the rest of the time. But to think of me never missing them!"

"Well, Hetty, you have always told me the truth—I am sure you are right. Oh, my poor little Flo! John, what had I better do?"

"Come up to her; we'll just wake her up for a moment, and give her some of the medicine Dr. Haddon left for her. Say nothing, for she will tell you in the morning, and that will be much better. As to you, Hetty, mind this—you are never to give the child anything to eat, except what your mistress provides. It was a very wrong and very careless thing to do, and if the poor child is ill for a week, it is your doing. Go off now to bed. Come, Celia."

Poor Hetty! That was a very miserable night.

CHAPTER VIII.

AT THE SEA-SIDE.

THE next morning Flo seemed poorly, but not really ill. Mrs. Eyre kept her in bed, and the child lay there quietly, and looked very sad.

"Mamma," she said, "when you're not busy, come to me."

"I can stay with you now if you like."

Flo looked up at her piteously.

"I've done a very wrong thing," said she.

"Yes, dear. Tell me all about it."

"Hetty brought me a present of two bunches of cherries. She did not know that I ought not to eat them; she put them away in Lina's basket. While she was reading I kept wishing for them, and when she went to the kitchen I took the basket off the table. They looked so nice I ate them. They were not very nice; they were sour, and not cool—but I ate them. They gave me a very bad pain; and I was glad of that. Oh, I've been just like Eve. Poor Eve, I am more sorry for her now! But Hetty did not do wrong, mamma; it was all me."

"I did think my little girl could be trusted," said Mrs. Eyre.

"So did I, mamma," was the unexpected reply, which very nearly surprised Mrs. Eyre into a laugh. "But I did it. Will you never trust me again, mamma?"

"Soon, I hope; but you will have to earn it, Flo. Do not cry, my dear, I know you are sorry, and I am glad you told me yourself. You are not strong, like Lina, so I shall not punish you, and I hope you will try to be sorry quietly, for if you cry and fret you will make yourself ill. And try, dear, to see where you began to do wrong. Eating the cherries was not the beginning, was it now?"

"No; I was cross all day, and I murmured, mamma, nearly all day, and never tried to stop; and then I kept wishing, wishing for the cherries."

"And if you had tried to leave off being cross and fretful it would not have been so hard, because, you know, you often have done that. God would have helped you."

"Will He forgive me, mamma?"

"Yes, love; shall we ask Him to do so now?"

"Oh yes! please do."

Mrs. Eyre knelt by the little crib, and prayed in simple, reverent words, Flo listening with tears in her eyes.

"Amen, and won't you give me a kiss, mamma?"

I need hardly say that the kiss was given. Happy little Flo! To be so taught, and so forgiven.

Mrs. Eyre then went down to the kitchen, and being rather a cowardly little woman, I must confess that she dreaded the impending interview with Mrs. Goodenough, who had been informed by Mr. Eyre that after this week her services would be no longer required, as he would not allow a servant to be kept who refused to give Mrs. Eyre such help as she needed with the children.

Mrs. Goodenough's feelings had been so much hurt that she had then and there demanded her week's wages, and another week, instead of a week's warning, and Mr. Eyre, knowing how his wife would rejoice to find her gone, paid her, and let her depart.

"I suppose," said she, standing in the hall, "the mistress means to keep Hetty Hardy, which I wish her joy of it. But as to slaving on to the end of the week, when you've dismissed me as if I hadn't been a month in the house, that I will not do; my things are all in their places, and the mistress knows that I'm honest—no need for counting the half-dozen pots and pans, I suppose, so I'll just go at once."

"You certainly shall," replied Mr. Eyre, opening the hall door, "and without another word if you please."

So Mrs. Goodenough departed, and Hetty reigned in her stead. She was busy in the kitchen, when her mother arrived.

"Oh, mother I'm sorry now that you had the trouble of coming, for Mrs. Goodenough went away of herself. She told the mistress that she would give no help with the children, and the master put her out; and I think I'm to stay."

"You think! and what's wrong with you now, Hetty? I thought you'd be delighted to have it settled—is it settled?"

"I hope so. Come down to the kitchen, mother, and I'll tell you all about it."

"I declare!" said Mrs. Hardy, when she had heard the story, "I don't know whether to laugh or cry. The notion! why, child, don't you see that it was a very impertinent thing for you to do? To go buying a penn'orth of cherries for the child because you fancied her mother couldn't. I wonder when you're going to have a morsel of sense—I do indeed! Well, I must find out if Mrs. Eyre is going to overlook it, for I declare I don't expect it. Where is she?"

"She'll be here in a minute, mother."

Hetty went on with her work, dropping tears into the kitchen utensils, and sighing in a heartbreaking manner; her mother watched her with some amusement. At last Mrs. Eyre came down.

"Where is Mrs. Goodenough?" said she, looking round.

"The master bid me tell you, ma'am, she's gone. She wouldn't stay even to wash up the things. He hadn't time to wait for you to come down."

Mrs. Eyre's manner became very much more cheerful.

"Oh, Mrs. Hardy, I didn't see you. Good morning."

"The same to you, ma'am. I just waited to ask—because it's pleasanter to have things settled—do you think you can put up any longer with this oaf of a girl? Such a piece of impertinence I never heard of. I'm downright ashamed of her, that's what I am."

"Hetty did not mean it for impertinence. She is very thoughtless, but she is very truthful. I am sure she will never do such a thing again. I will see how we get on, if you are quite satisfied to have it so."

"Quite pleased and satisfied, ma'am—and—There you go, Hetty! Boo—hoo—like a baby! First, for fear you are to go, and now for joy that you're to stay. I haven't a bit of patience with you, and that's the solemn truth. Good morning, Mrs. Eyre—when she's done blubbering, she'll put away the rest of those things, I hope."

Mrs. Eyre went upstairs with her.

"You are too hard upon Hetty," said she.

"Ma'am, that's just because you are too soft with her. If you gave her a raking good scolding when she makes a fool of herself; she'd be all the better of it."

Mrs. Hardy was so far right, that it was quite as well for Hetty that she began her new undertaking in a slightly subdued spirit. Between that, and the fact that she hardly ever had a spare minute, she got on very well. Of course she made mistakes, and sometimes forgot to do this or that; but on the whole she did well, and was a great comfort to her busy little mistress. And Flo, who was taken out every fine day, began to improve slowly, but perceptibly.

Mrs. Eyre, who did not expect too much from a girl of fifteen, was satisfied with Hetty, and even Mrs. Hardy began to think that all her "raking fine scoldings" were taking effect, and "making a woman of the girl" at last.

The only person who felt disappointed was Mrs. Goodenough, who had confidently expected to be recalled on account of Hetty's blunders, and who had not found it easy to get a comfortable place. However, no one can be very sorry for her, as she deserved to be disappointed. Her mistress had always been most kind and considerate, and I pronounce Mrs. Goodenough a selfish old woman.

In about six months the Eyres had paid off the few debts incurred during Mr. Eyre's illness, and, moreover, he got a very welcome and unexpected rise in his salary. One of the partners in the great firm died, and his son was a man of larger views and more generous feelings than any of the other persons concerned. He was quite shocked to find how hard and grasping the firm had always been to their clerks and salesmen, and with much trouble he succeeded in bringing about a better state of things.

The very first thing that Mr. Eyre insisted on was, that some one should be hired in Mrs. Goodenough's place, for he thought that both his wife and Hetty had rather too much to do. And who do you think came begging to be engaged but the excellent Goodenough herself? And in a very subdued and anxious state of mind, I assure you.

Mr. Eyre laughed when he heard that she was to come back, and said that his wife was a silly little woman. Mrs. Goodenough was very civil to Hetty, but she had by no means forgiven her for having offered to remain in her place, and the girl had no friend in the old woman from that time.

Another benefit conferred on those in the employment of Miller & Cartwright by the new Mr. Miller, who had come home to take his share in the management, was an annual holiday. Mr. Eyre was informed that he might take a fortnight in July, and that Mr. Miller would fill his place for the time. And judge of the delight of the children when they were told that they were to spend most of the time at R—, a small village on the coast of —shire, chosen because it would be an easy journey for Flo. Hetty was to go with them, and Mrs. Goodenough was to give the house a thorough cleaning during their absence.

When the much-expected day arrived, Flo insisted on taking Zelica with her, saying that Mrs. Goodenough did not love Zelica, and would not make her happy. As no one could contradict this statement, Zelica was shut into her basket, and became one of the travellers.

Only a little while ago, to keep Zelica in the basket would have been one person's work; but her kitten days were over, and though she could enjoy a game of play still, she no longer wanted to be playing all day long. She lay contentedly in her basket, peeping out through the wickerwork with a supercilious air, as is the manner of cats. Flo lay on the cushions with her head on Hetty's lap, and Zelica's basket held in her arms. Lina and Edgar danced about in great glee—Flo had to tell them more than once that they were "childish."

At last they reached R—, and Hetty carried Flo to the pleasant lodgings that Mr. Eyre had engaged. The child was too tired to care even to see the sea; as Lina was wild to do. But next day she was rested, and her delight was very great. When the tide was low, there was a beautiful beach, where she could lie on a soft shawl, and actually pick up pebbles and shells for herself. Then, when the tide was high, there was a zigzag path up the low cliff, and near the top there was a hut, with a broad seat all made of sods, green and fresh; and here Hetty and Flo spent many happy hours, while the others rambled about. Zelica condescended to go with them to the hut; down on the beach she would not go, as her delicate paws got wet with salt water. Poor Hetty! That wooden hut haunted her dreams for many a night, for it was here that she got a lesson which went far towards curing her of her thoughtlessness.

The days passed very happily. Mrs. Eyre and the three children bathed and rambled about. Even Baby Johnnie could walk now; they got sunburned and freckled, and loaves of bread disappeared before them as if by magic. Mr. Eyre, too, began to look brown and strong, and even Flo's little cheeks got a pale pink touch. As to the other members of the family, Hetty and Zelica, they could hardly look better than they always did.

Their pleasant stay was drawing to an end, when one day Mr. Eyre announced that he was off for a long solitary walk, as he wished to go farther and by rougher paths than any one else was equal to. Before he went, he carried Flo up to the hut on the cliff, Hetty following, laden with her workbasket, Flo's pillow and shawls and a second basket, which contained the cat. Also Hetty brought a charming story, which Flo had heard many times, but now wished to hear again.

"There you are, little woman," said Mr. Eyre, laying the child down on the scat, where Hetty proceeded to make her comfortable. "I declare, Hetty, I think she is a little bit heavier, and she surely looks better."

"That she does, sir. We'll have her dancing country dances before long."

"That's what you always say, Hetty. But I'm not sure that I want to dance country dances. I would rather go out walking on the common with the rest."

"That will be a pleasant day, little Flo. Now, good-bye. I shall be back in time to help you down the path, Hetty, so you may wait for me if the day does not change; and I don't think it will do that."

"I wonder is it always fine here?" said Flo, as she watched her father going up the steep path.

"Oh, no, Miss Flo! They have their share of rain and storm, no doubt. Don't you remember the old fisherman, who told you how his boat was lost, and his grandson was—"

"Don't, Hetty! Oh, I dreamed of it! Do let me forget it. I hope it will be fine all the time we're here. The sea is so nice. Does not that long bright streak look as if we could walk on it? I want to think of it like this always."

"So we will, Miss Flo. I don't suppose there are any storms in the summer."

With such conversation, Hetty working all the time, they passed the morning. Then Flo had some biscuits and milk, and Zelica, having had her share of milk, got back into her snug basket, and went fast asleep. Hetty began to read "Whiter than Snow," which I think she must have known of by heart. And Flo listened until the murmur of the sea mingled with the well-known words, and Hetty's voice sounded far-off and indistinct. After that, Flo was asleep.

Hetty covered her more completely, and then stitched away at the brown holland pinafore she was making. Presently a shrimp-girl, whose acquaintance she had made on the beach, came up the path with a sackful of these little creatures on her back. Hetty threw down her work and went out to talk to her. The girl was glad to rest, and to have a chat, and Flo slept peacefully, so that it did not matter.

"Well, I must be going," said the girl at last. "I have eight miles to walk to sell my shrimps to-day. Such a take as we had! And Joe Mallard gave up fishing early, and went and sold all his in the village; so no one would look at mine. Here, miss, I'll give you some if you have anything to put them in."

Hetty produced the paper bag in which Flo's biscuits had been packed, and the shrimp-girl filled it generously.

"That's for yourself, mind. You must boil them till they're red. Good-bye now; I must lose no more time."

"Good-bye, and thank you kindly," said Hetty, going back to her work.

But she did not work long. The pleasant shade of the hut—the wide outlook over the deep blue sea, dotted all over with fishing boats, tempted her to gaze. Laying down her work on her knees, she gazed, and dreamed, and idled. How much time she passed in this occupation she had no idea—if one can call it an occupation.

At last Flo stirred in her sleep, and Hetty roused herself. She changed the position of the pillow a little, and the child was soon in a deep sleep again.

But now Hetty perceived that Zelica was gone. The basket was open, and empty. Hetty tried to remember when she saw her last. She had been there when the shrimp-girl came—and Hetty thought she had seen her when she returned to the hut.

"She'll have gone back to the lodgings—but I will take a look round; the child won't wake this hour."

She went out and looked up and down the path. Coming back, she perceived that Zelica, who was not a perfectly honest cat,—poor Flo always thought it was because she had seen her mistress take the cherries!—had been at the bag of shrimps. She had poked a hole in the thin, wet paper, and Hetty concluded that she had stolen a shrimp, and run off to try if she liked it.

"She can't be far-off," muttered Hetty, taking a look at Flo, who was lying quite quiet. "I'll just run up the path a bit. She'll have gone that way, the little thief! She won't go home with her stolen shrimp."

CHAPTER IX.

THE BIG BLACK DOG.

IT was about two o'clock when Hetty left the hut on the slope of the cliff path, and it was a little past three when Mr. Eyre reached it on his way home. He had had a most delightful walk, and his pockets were full of spoils, brought home for little Flo: flowers, sea-weeds, a deserted nest, feathers—every pretty thing that he had seen that was likely to please his little sick girl. There was no sound of talking as he drew near, so he entered quietly, thinking that the child was asleep.

But Flo was not there. The hut was deserted. The shawls used for covering her when she slept were on the ground—and there too was Zelica's basket, all bent and frayed. Also a wet paper and a lot of half-dead shrimps, some of them mashed up in a very unsightly manner, and Hetty's work; all these things lay here and there, but Flo, Hetty, and Zelica had vanished.

"The child must have been ill. Stay! there's the mark of a big dog's paw on the shawl! They have been frightened, and Hetty has taken her home to her mother."

Hastily gathering up the scattered articles, all save the shrimps, he began to descend the zigzag path rapidly. He turned the first corner, and—what was that at the bottom of the next descent? He flung away everything that he was carrying, and flew down the path. Yes—his fears were only too well justified! it was Flo lying on her face, and between her and the edge of the cliff sat a large black retriever, who looked up in the newcomer's face and whined. Then he put his nose to the child's head, and cried again.

John Eyre lifted his little one; her face was cut and scratched, and so were her poor little hands. But, oh! that was nothing to what he feared for her! How had she come there? She was quite insensible, and looking back he saw a scrap of her frock and one little soft shoe on the rough track; she had fallen and rolled down the steep incline—something had stopped her, perilously near the edge, over which she would otherwise have fallen eight or nine feet, coming down on the rocky surface of another division of the zigzag. It seemed as if the dog had stopped her; at all events, he was sitting between her and the edge.

But you may be sure that Mr. Eyre did not delay to decide the question. Carrying the child steadily, he hurried on, the dog running by his side, looking up with almost human anxiety in his face. He followed to the door of the lodgings, saw Flo carried in, and then ran off.

"Celia! Celia! come here. Oh, my dear, I can't take time to warn you—something has happened to Flo—she has fallen."

Mrs. Eyre was by his side. "John, is she dead?"

"No, no,—not dead. Let me lay her on her bed. See! She is only scratched—she moved then. Oh, Celia! The child is alive!"

Mrs. Eyre brought water, and opened the child's frock, which was all twisted round and round her. Flo opened her eyes,—but, alas! she did not seem to know them. She screamed, as if in terror, crying out,—

"Oh, Hetty, Hetty! The dog—the big black dog! Oh, Hetty! Come back, come back! Oh, Zelica, poor Zelica!"

"Where is Hetty, John?"

"I don't know. But, if this is her fault—!"

His voice was lost in Flo's terrified screams.

"John, dear, she is very ill. I must have help. Go to the Convalescent Home over there, and ask the nurse to come to me—she was talking to Flo the other day. And get a doctor: I think we must lose no time."

Mr. Eyre ran to the Home, and was very fortunate, for the nurse could easily be spared, as there were not many patients, and they were all nearly well. So she came at once, and so did the doctor.

It seemed a long time before the doctor came downstairs to the room where poor John Eyre waited for him, and where the three children sat cowering in a corner, terrified by Flo's shrieks, and their father's face of misery.

"Your wife, sir (I don't know your name yet), tells me that the doctor who knows the child's case could be here in a few hours if you went for him. There are no bones broken; but she is in a fearful state of terror and excitement, and I should be very glad to have this Dr. Haddon's help. You see, I don't know anything about the previous injury. Mrs. Dooner, the nurse, can stay here, and I should advise your taking these poor little things home, if possible. There will be plenty to do, without having them here."

"I will take them home, and bring Haddon back. When is the next train?"

"There is one in half an hour. If no one else sends for me, I will stay here until you return. You may be able to get back by one which stops here at nine, but to do that you must not lose a moment."

"You're very kind," John Eyre said, and began putting on the children's hats, which lay on the window seat.

Just as they were ready, a flying step passed the window, and in rushed Hetty, looking like a mad girl.

"Miss Flo," she gasped. "Oh, sir, Miss Flo!"

"Where have you been?" said John Eyre sternly.

"Miss Flo! Miss Flo!" cried Hetty.

"You may hear her screams. She is here. I found her half-way down the path. Where were you? Speak, girl!"

"Zelica ran away; I went after her. She—I saw her on the green place at the top of the cliff. She ran off, and I after her. She got into a lane that goes away from the sea, and when I saw that I couldn't catch her, I turned back; but I had lost my way. Oh, I have run till I'm nearly dead, and when I got to the hut—oh, sir!—"

"You left the child, and went away, far enough to lose yourself. I don't know what happened to her, but I think she is dying. Go—go home! Let me never see your face again."

"Oh, Mr. Eyre! I deserve it; but the mistress will have no one to help her."

"I will see to that. Here is your money. Go at once! I cannot bear the sight of you."

He took the three children, and left the house. He was but just in time to catch the train.

Hetty sank upon the window seat and listened, her heart wrung almost past endurance, to the sounds upstairs. Poor Flo! Had any one thought of it, the sight of Hetty, for whom she called so pitifully, would have quieted her better than anything. But Mrs. Eyre did not know that Hetty was in the house, and no one else attended to the meaning of the child's cry.

"Zelica! oh, Zelica! The big black dog has eaten Zelica! He'll kill me too! Hetty! Hetty! come back!"

"If this can't be stopped, the child will be in convulsions," said the nurse.

The doctor took a small bottle out of his pocket, saying, "I must, I suppose. I would rather have waited for Dr. Haddon."

He mixed a few drops with water, and gave the glass to Mrs. Eyre.

"Flo, you must drink this," Mrs. Eyre said softly. And Flo, having learned long ago to obey that gentle voice, checked her wild outcry and swallowed the medicine at once.

"Oh, mamma! is that you?"

"Yes, darling. Lie still; I want you to go to sleep."